


The Riddles of Monsters

by marchionessofblackadder



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 1482, Captain Jacques Charmant is ordered by his superior, the austere Judge Dispenser, to purge Paris of the sinful Truands, the street gypsies and vile beggars. Searching the catacombs, the captain finds the gypsies’ notorious Court of Miracles, and their monstrous king, Le Lutin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Riddles of Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Hunchback of Notre Dame and a bit of a "spin off" from Sinners and Spinners. This just pounced on me and wouldn’t let go! That being said, I have a feeling it’ll turn into a mult-chaptered work (c’est la vie).
> 
> This is for my dear Emma.

Darkness cloaked the sewer, save for the lone torch that Captain Charmant held aloft. The stone ceiling and walls dripped with musty residue as he waded through the thick, murky green water, his boots sloshing and startling the beady eyed black rats as big as some of Paris’s alley cats. He’d sent his men down into the sewers for days at a time, but they had never found any evidence of a gypsy underground, as Judge Dispenser so adamantly insisted existed. The growing darkness that began to shift and move under the light of his torch like a living, breathing thing only burned him more in anger that he couldn’t find the gypsies.  
  
They lived in the streets so colorfully and joyfully by daylight, especially the prancing, mocking arlequin known simply as _Le Lutin_ , the Imp, who entertained the beggar children with his gruesome marionettes hung with golden string, more often than not hand in hand with his colombine _La Belle_ , a pretty little wisp of a girl with midnight blue skirts that whirled about pale slender legs, laced in a black corset embroidered with what looked suspiciously like golden thread. They were ever a matching pair, their act bringing the denizens of Pairs around for miles, both high and low born. Sometimes the Imp performed magic tricks, making a man bark and a dog speak, or conjuring a rose for the girl who traveled with him. She was not as flamboyant or showy as her partner, but there was something secret in her smile, something in her meekness that drew the audience in. It was almost unearthly, the magnitude they possessed, the illusions that had no seam.  
  
Yet, even as dark and twisted as the Imp was in his valed mockery of the church, and as seductive as the Beauty was in her street dancing, Captain Charmant knew they meant no harm to anyone. They were paupers scrounging in the muddy cobbles dreaming of warmth and gold. No, the captain searched for scum and thieves, those who delighted in the blood and pain of others, the true beasts that kept their city praying for salvation.  
  
The screams of the family sentenced to die, burning in their own home, still haunted the captain, and their memory drove him forward into the darkness until a splash of the sewer water from behind stopped him in his tracks. Turning and finding nothing but rippling water in the dark, the captain held his torch high before he was suddenly shoved forward from behind, toppling into the mucky sewer water. His torch fell with him, going out with a loud hiss, and all of the catacombs were swallowed in black.  
  
A shrill, unnerving giggle echoed off the walls, and just as Charmant found his footing again, two strong hands the size of bear traps hauled him up out of the water, crunching over the remains of bones and dead rats. A thick cloth scented with tobacco and sweat was dragged over his face and bunched through his teeth, gagging him. Light roared to life all around him lit from fresh torches, and he saw men of all shapes and sizes morphing from the stones and darkness, wide eyed, gaunt, dirty, and grinning maniacally.  
  
“Impressive work, cherie! Simply impressive,” the trilling voice sang from above, and the captain looked up, knees forced down into the sewer to find none other than that same leering twisted little man who danced in the streets, perched on a stone shelf high above. Clothed in his dark, ragged motley and boots laced to his knees, the Imp fluttered fingers in a lazy wave, his wiry curls bouncing with a toss of his head. “I knew you would be the one to find the court,” with a dramatic sigh fit for only the finest of performances, the Imp laid his hands over his heart and pouted. “And it is quite tragic to know you won’t live to tell the tale.”  
  
Speaking was useless with the oily handkerchief shoved between his teeth, but the captain tried to explain anyway. The gypsies laughed uproariously around him at his muffled protests, and the Imp leapt to his heeled boots, balancing talentedly upon his toes. With nearly inhuman ease, he skipped along the edge of the shelf that ran down the length of the catacomb, and with a rough push, the captain was forced to follow, sloshing through the inky darkness. From the lofts above, the Imp pranced and sang, his eerie voice bouncing off the stones, “Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?”  
  
The captain’s heart nearly fell through the ground beneath his feet, hearing the Imp singing his name like a sickly playful funeral dirge.  
  
Following that haunting melody that set his teeth grinding, his query about what the court was could be answered when they thrust him through a crude hole in the stone wall into a section of the catacombs that was brightly lit and stretched out for miles. It was an underground village, torches and bonfires burning to create light as well as warmth. Tents and hammocks of shimmering dyed silk hung from rafters and wooden beams of poorly constructed shanties, and men, women, and children teemed between stone a life of poverty there beneath the Paris cemetery.  
  
“You see, cherie, no one comes into our court without being put under trial,” the Imp sang, his heels clicking as he spun to face him. The men hauling the captain forward came to a stop, and Charmant watched as the twisted little arlequin danced up to him. Though he stood nearly a head taller, the Imp held a raw, dark power that was altogether frightening and fascinating. He bounced up on his heels, his dark eyes twinkling egregiously, “As both lawyer and judge, I’ll make sure justice comes swiftly,” with a shivering giggle, the little man bounced up to the tips of his toes with nervous energy, “The sentence, after all, is my favorite part!”  
  
Captain Charmant glared fiercely at the Imp, and attempted explaining himself through his gag again with more fervor, but he only succeeded in producing angry, disgruntled sounds. The Imp giggled, clapping his hands together, “Yes, yes, yes, I quite agree!”  
  
With a flourishing leap, the little man leapt up the stairs to a wooden platform situated near the center of the “court”, and Charmant could see it was meant to be a square to their underground village. People began ducking out from their tents and nooks, peering at the newcomer as he was shoved up the stairs to follow the prancing arlequin who was swinging back and forth between two of three fresh nooses that hung from an impromptu gallow.  
  
The captain’s face must have showed his shock, because the Imp pitched himself forward, grasping his tunic and yanking him with both hands. His eyes, dark and glittering feverishly, held Charmant’s gaze as he trilled, “I am the crocodile of the catacombs, cherie, and I never let rats like you get away.”  
  
Charmant shook his head insistently, growling against the vile bit of cloth. The Imp wasn’t deterred in the slightest; in fact, he seemed to enjoy the struggle, shivering and purring as he swung the empty noose around and clasped it around the captain’s neck, pinching his cheek affectionately. “Please do struggle,” the Imp said. “I do so love to play with my food.”  
  
Even as the rope tightened about his neck, the captain could feel the performance. It was in every movement, look, and sound that the man made, everything grand and twisted in its black humor that left Charmant sick with dread, and only made worse by the people who gathered around the base of the gallows, feeding off the Imp’s bloodlust. He didn’t just play with the music, with the words and the steps that he made his living off of; he played off the people, their joys and fears and turned it into a game where only he was the winner in the end. This wasn’t about him. It never was. It was about the Imp’s power over his own people.  
  
Charmant knew, then, that it wasn’t just an execution; it was an example. Perhaps it would be better in such a way, for he had come to warn them of the dangers that Judge Dispenser was going to invoke in the name of purity, of Christianity, but they as a people had the right to question his motives. He was the messenger, and now he only prayed his punishment for such a crime would be quick.  
  
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, cherie, you will make me feel at fault for what I must do,” the Imp pouted, drumming his slender fingers over the dark leather vest over his motley. “But you see, you are completely innocent, and for that you must simply be punished.”  
  
The captain of the guard glowered, mulling over the gag in his mouth like an ox chewing cud.  
  
“Any last words?” asked the Imp, his eyes glittering like dark stones in a riverbed. He put his hand to his ear dramatically, and Charmant shot glaring looks at the people laughing below. “No?” the Imp giggled, clapping his hands together as he stepped toward the lever. “Then, I think it shall be off with your-”  
  
“Wait!”  
  
The Imp stepped forward, his hands fallen to his sides, and Charmant watched as a small young woman pushed her way through the crowd before she hurried up the steps. So flustered was she that she slipped on the last one, tumbling forward, and the Imp reached forward and caught her by the arm. A chivalrous act, but the girl shook him off, her periwinkle blue eyes icy in her anger. She pointed, stepping forward until the Imp backed up, cornered between the girl and the gallows. “This is not justice! This is foolishness!”  
  
The Imp’s face softened, and Charmant was startled to hear his voice again when he spoke, as if another man altogether was beneath the hardened lines and flinty dark eyes, trying to escape tentatively through a gentle, deeper voice. “Captain Charmant, of the city guard,” the Imp gestured lamely with his hand, cuffed in moldy lace. “Is he not a spy for the judge, _ma belle_?”  
  
The girl’s face was hard with defiance, glancing around the man to where Charmant stood. She stepped around him carefully, and it was only then in her petite turn that the captain realized she was the little colombine that followed the Imp so closely. Studying his face with full measures of distaste, suspicion, and frustration, it was a long muted moment before she turned back to their judge, who was wringing his hands so nervously, awaiting the little woman’s word. Stepping forward, almost toe to toe with the Imp, the girl’s face relaxed, and she looked up at him with only benevolence.  
  
“How bleak our world would be if all men were assumed to be monsters,” the young woman said softly, and stared so longingly into the Imp’s face. Though she spoke no louder than a cooing dove, the arlequin flinched as if she had struck him, and colored around his ears and down his neck. The girl reached forward and gathered the man’s hand in her own dainty grip, resting her other hand over his chest. The touch was so intimate, so tender that Charmant dropped his eyes down, instead choosing to focus on the thrumming of his own heart in the wake of his near execution. Over the din of the crowd, though, he could make out the girl’s soft, honeyed voice, “You’re not a monster, you are not like them. Please-please don’t do this.”  
  
The Imp’s hands flexed, one in the girl’s and the other at his side, and his face contorted painfully under her words, his eyes flickering down to where her little hand rested over his dark motley. The air all around was tense as the man seemed to be at odds with himself, and the only one who appeared relaxed, confident, comfortable, was the girl, as if she knew what his decision would be even before the Imp did. With a quick duck of his head, he brought the girl’s hand from his chest to his lips and pressed a meaningful kiss to her knuckles, before whirling around. With a sharp fling of his arm, he threw a jagged dagger unnervingly accurately and sliced through the noose.  
  
The girl clapped her hands with a bright smile, even as Charmant fell over. His legs had gone numb from the tightness of the rope and left him sprawling at the Imp’s feet. With a little coo, the girl rushed forward and knelt down, loosening his bonds and removing the gag. Her eyes were even bluer and brighter up close, and though she was dressed nearly as raggedy as her Imp, a quiet inner warmth shone through with the softest of graces, and the captain was a little bit taken back when she smiled and touched his cheek with affection. “Give us pardon, sir,” she whispered, smiling gently. “We are not what we seem, truly.”  
  
Charmant coughed, his throat and mouth dry from the gag, and he grumbled, “Yeah, I got that.”  
  
The Imp stepped around them and pulled his dagger from the wooden beam of the gallow, slipping it back up into one of his billowing sleeves with a nasty sneer. “Obviously you do not, if you are given to storming the trenches with so little regard for your own well being.”  
  
“I’m here to warn you,” the captain growled out, glaring at the Imp as he struggled to his feet. If he didn’t state his business now, he doubted he’d get a chance again. Wiping sweat from his eyes, Charmant rubbed his wrists where his bindings had turned the skin raw. The Imp narrowed his dark eyes in suspicion, and their people pressed in closer to hear the captain’s words. “Judge Dispenser has begun a citywide manhunt for this place-for you and your people. He’s coming, tonight.”  
  
The Imp narrowed his dark eyes, his face black with suspicion and hunted as he prowled closer. Though Charmant was a full head taller, power radiated from the man like another sense that he possessed. Authority, persuasion, charisma-it was all there, hidden beneath the darkness that stormed in his eyes. He bared his teeth, pointing with his dagger so the tip rested just upon the captain’s breast. “And why should we trust you?”  
  
“Because otherwise you’re taking a risk with all of these peoples’ lives,” he snapped, glaring at the Imp. The other man flinched at the words, and Charmant continued quickly while he still had his attention. “Dispenser is ready to burn the entire city to the ground looking for you all-he’s already started. Men, women-children, all who’ve been associated with you and your people are subject to interrogations and...” he lowered his eyes, thinking of the family who had almost burned alive in their own home. “...punishment.”  
  
The girl rose to her feet and padded close to the Imp, her eyes widening in horror, her voice cracking as she asked, “People...dying- for us?”  
  
Closing his eyes, the man beside her shuddered, and Charmant glanced between the two before nodding. “Yes.”  
  
The girl looked up at the slight man beside her, her blue eyes welling up with tears under his stony face, but he met her gaze with complete remorse. They shared a meaningful look that spoke volumes, and finally he nodded, before turning to the people, his voice ringing off the rafters, “All able bodied men, you will join me as we throw off the scent of this dastardly judge,” he clapped his hands together. “If Dispenser thinks he can find us out, we’ll show him a few tricks of our own.”  
  
“How do you plan on doing that?” Charmant asked, his doubt heavy in his voice as he watched the little man spin to face him.  
  
The girl took his hand in both of hers, and the Imp smirked at the captain, “If our good Judge wants a hunt, we shall give him one. We’ll scatter, and draw him out from the heart of the city and away from our court. These catacombs are a puzzle, but we shall skew the pieces in our favor so he never solves it.”  
  
The Imp’s command was golden, for the gypsies began moving quickly. Men of all ages hurried and gathered cloaks and weapons. Charmant watched them, like the busiest wasps in a hive, wonder stealing his thought at the sudden air of territorial defense that took over the crowd. Men hugging their children and kissing their wives, brothers embracing, and families already bidding goodbye were all he could see everywhere he looked.  
  
The judge had told him so often that he was searching for a ring of thieves and scoundrels, but all he could see were families simply trying to survive.  
  
When he turned back to the gallows, the Imp and the girl stood closer, his weather worn hand cupping her pretty face in his palm. She smiled up at him, leaning her cheek into his touch, swaying just slightly back and forth so the dusty hem of her skirt lapped at her calves. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered, her hands resting over his arm. She shrugged slim shoulders, sliding her hands down his arms to play with the cuff of his dirtied silk shirt beneath his oddly scaled leather coat. “Not for myself.”  
  
“I know,” the Imp murmured, his other hand reaching up to brush away a stray curl from her neck. His eyes had softened, gone from their almost black to a gentle honeyed brown that was nothing but warmth and concern for the girl. “But I need you where I know you will be safe, and there’s only one place.”  
  
Her eyes widened, her mouth pulling into a surprised “o” as she took in his meaning. “Notre-Dame?”  
  
“It’s always protected us before,” the Imp said softly, his eyes falling to her lips as his fingers brushed down her neck and over shoulder. “At least there, I know you will be safe.”  
  
The girl looked like she was going to argue with him, her eyes going to an icy blue under furrowed brows, but the man’s hopeful, and perhaps scared face gave her pause. She softened, and something passed between the two of them, something secret and private and gentle that the captain could not have thought capable of such a sneering creature as he. But then the girl stepped forward, throwing her arms about the slight man’s neck and hugging him close. He returned her sentiment, clutching her just as tightly against him, tucking his face into her hair and breathing her in, swaying her gently from side to side as her toes brushed the ground.  
  
“You’ve always protected me,” she whispered, almost too faint for Charmant to hear over the chaos. He turned his eyes away, but he could still hear their tender words. “So you must come back, don’t you see?”  
  
“Too true,” the Imp gave a watery laugh into her shoulder, half muffled beneath a kiss he pressed to her collar. “It’s a full time job, catching you from tripping and falling and wandering off. How ever have I managed to keep you all this time, _ma belle_?”  
  
The girl wrinkled her nose in a smile. “Because I won’t let you go, of course.”  
  
“I regret to be the bearer of distasteful news, but we should hurry,” the captain said sourly, stepping forward. “Dispenser is gaining momentum even as we speak. The sooner your people are moving, the better.”  
  
“The good captain is right,” the Imp giggled, but the sound was sharp and forced. At the girl’s slightly upset face, the Imp’s eyes flickered, and he stepped toe to toe with her, lowering his voice to say, “You must take every precaution, _ma belle_.”  
  
“See that you do the same, for my sake if not your own,” the girl whispered, resting her forehead to his before rising up on her toes with a quick bounce and kissing his cheek, a flighty movement that seemed to take courage on her part.  
  
The Imp looked momentarily dazed, until he gathered the girl’s hand like a treasure, pressing a kiss to her fingers and before holding it to his chest. With a snap of his arm, he produced a thick dark cloak and, casting a cold, bemused glance at the captain, whirled it about to shroud the little harlequin. He smiled fondly, lifting the hood up with both hands to drape upon the crown of her head, shadowing her face, and leaned forward to brush his nose to hers, murmuring, “For your sake then.”  
  
Turning on his heel, the arlequin faced the captain, and taking two powerful strides, faced the man head on, his eyes burning like coals as he jabbed his finger against the man’s chest. “You will see her safely to the church. You will make sure she is delivered to the archdeacon. You will see that no harm befalls her.” Narrowing his eyes like a hawk, the Imp growled, “Or I shall rip you limb from limb, little rat.”  
  
Charmant swallowed thickly, before holding out his hand to the young girl wordlessly, who took it with a blush in her face and a demure glance at the Imp. “I would expect nothing less,” the captain said weakly, clearing his throat.  
  
“ _Magnifique_ ,” giggled the Imp, casting one more look to the girl. With a wink, he whirled about and leapt from the gallows, striding into the throng of thieves and brigands that would flood the streets and bait the soldiers with their tricks and crafts.  
  
The captain wasted not a moment, and took the girl by the hand, leading her back out the way they’d come. She kept up on lithe legs, hurrying alongside him quietly and keeping a tight hold on his hand until they stepped out from the sewer into the cold Parisian air once more, the cemetery angels mourning their cause.  
  
It wasn’t until they closed the grave covering the court’s entrance that the girl asked, small voiced at his side, “Will he be alright?”  
  
The captain rested his hands against the stone of the grave, not wanting to turn and face the young girl with the pale, pretty face and eyes full of worry and sadness. They both knew the strength of the soldiers, the wrath of the judge, and the power of bitterness and hate. He stood up and took her hand once more, and instead of giving her a truth he knew would break her, or a lie that she would not accept, Charmant whispered, “Come, we need to see you to sanctuary.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dispenser is the old French form of Spencer. Any spelling variations, such as "arlequin" and "colombine", are also in French.


End file.
